


don't let the tide come and wash us away

by for_within_the_hollow_crown



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 04:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12100794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_within_the_hollow_crown/pseuds/for_within_the_hollow_crown
Summary: “Pretty good spot for a sunrise.“"It is.” Jemma pauses. “Though let’s face it, everything’s an improvement from the base’s window.”





	don't let the tide come and wash us away

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Team Engineering's Fitz Birthday Project: The Fitz Wish List. The wish was: make Jemma happy.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

The wooden boards of the bench they're sitting on are bloated because of humidity. The wood itself is consumed by time, the surfaces irregular and the edges both broken and rounded. There are cracks running through the entire length of each board and they either start and end before each knot, or bend around them, almost enclosing them; they're darker than the rest of the surface, almost black, and in some points still hold the remains of the previous day's rainstorm - infinite small puddles that have yet to be absorbed or dry off. The brass armrests too are studded with raindrops that every now and then run down the curved surface, slowly and silently, amidst the scratches, leaving nothing but a wet trail behind them before they fall on to the ground, into the grass, adding up to the half dried and cracked mud.

Their legs are touching and the contact, that is nothing more than a brush, is enough for warmth to spread inside of them both - little by little. It's a well known feeling of comfort that brings along peace and elation, and of being home, and the other's presence beside them, that feeble contact of trousers against trousers, comes as a welcomed reminder that they are both there together. It's real, tangent, palpable, all sharp edges and neat details - the fabric of Fitz's blue anorak, in contrast with Jemma's bright yellow one, creates a dim green shadow, barely visible in the early hours of the morning, on both their jackets. They are not to wake up on different sides of the universe, with rainy eyes and longing filling their hearts, but are allowed to be and sit there, in silence, enjoying the moment in all its deepness and complexity.

After almost a year, being in each other's company still comes as a blessing and the tenderness of times long gone is still there, but mixes both with awe and hesitation - too much change has happened for it not to be so. Actions come easily and naturally, they're genuine, sweetly affectionate, and flow without interruptions; words, on the other hand, come out wearily and are backed up by second guessing and  explanations that, although never voiced, are already at the back of their throats, ready to be spoken out loud. Jemma and Fitz are walking on the edge, or at least feel like it, in a precarious equilibrium, anything to tick them off and make them lose balance, causing them to fall back in a well known territory in which hate has the power of setting them free and every attack, every _you_ pronounced with precision and sneer, is triggered by the one that precedes it.

They are too polite, too constrained, too timorous to be honest with each other and pour their hearts out: there are reactions to take into considerations and there's the possibility of their actions being misinterpreted, of hurting the other without meaning to, of questions and statements overstepping invisible boundaries - casualty drifting into flippancy. They've known interruption and are now painfully aware of one thing: it takes nothing for misunderstandings and confusion to build up, get bigger and bigger, out of their control; all it takes is a misheard word, a shift of a stress, voices raising in the wrong moment. So they pay attention and take care in pouring out their sentences in a grammatical fashion, with neutral voices and without ever looking away, so as to avoid anger, growing resentments and above all the truth. There's whispering, tiptoeing, and turning their heads the other way round so as to pretend not to see something that is quite obviously there and hangs between them at any time of the day - all the matters they should acknowledge and talk about are ignored and brushed off in favour of a neutrality that in a perfect scheme of things would bring them closer, but reaches the opposite effect and distances them.

The maybe-s of the past have long vanished through a slow and ongoing process that by now has completely worn off the strings of time and conditional that once bound them - semi-opaque at first, then frail and transparent, then invisible and inexistent. The certainty of the times gone by, that sheer belief in a future, has faded away too and has been replaced by something both unspoken and unquantifiable, something new, something that comes alive in the privacy of a dark room and is enclosed and kept safe by four brick walls. Whispers and small gestures, a back pressed against a chest, arms around a waist, lips pressed on a forehead, fingertips putting on a show: it's something private that shines through lingering touches, smiles and glances that last longer than necessary. Feelings that play in the background but that everyone knows of - it would be hard not to notice and it's good, so why not talk about it? Why not take any moment from the past year and start from there, instead of keeping it a secret in plain view?

As they sit there, he thinks about taking her hand. They've done it before, use physical contact when words aren't enough or are failing them - hundreds of occasions stretched over the ten years of their friendship; it appears infinitely easier, or so Fitz likes to fool himself, than opening his mouth and find something appropriate to say. Comfort and support expressed through touch, the rest will follow, one day, soon, when they're ready, but she should know that there's no need of pretending, not for his sake. What happens behind closed doors is none of his business nor does he particularly care about it, but he knows some of what is going on; they're friends, he wants to tell her, so why not just discuss the matter with no judgement and no accusations? He turns his head around, his scarf covers his mouth and he adjusts it, pulling it down under his chin, before his hand land on his lap again, and looks at Jemma, studying her nervous movements as she plays with the threads that hang from her sleeve.

His gaze is inquisitive and piercing, Jemma feels it on her but dares not to look back at him. She twists the thread around her finger and carefully looks at the red lines where the cotton is pressing into her skin - uncaring whether or not it's making things worse and the seams are to come off completely, it appears as a much more suitable activity than confront Fitz. This could be bliss but the silence between them is unbearable and so is the dread at the pit of her stomach, the one that has never really left her in the past few months, his embarrassed expression, his quickness in looking away, that morning in the corridor as they were making their way out of the playground, to his car, appears burdensome and haunts her, adding up to problems and questions that were already there. She looks up to the scenery in front of her - her actions too mechanical and calculated to appear natural.

The anoraks they're wearing, with the seams that are coming apart and the need to be regularly sprayed with waterproofing, are years old; bought during the summer between the end of their time at The Academy and the beginning of their work time at Sci-Ops. How far in time it all appears now, they were innocent then, naive even, and how vivid the memories still are in both their minds, as fresh as on the day they were made. The summer rain, the need of a backup plan in front of a ruined trip, it's all there and if either of them has to pinpoint a moment in time to mark their friendship as it was - that quickening, honest and all encompassing relationship, with every moment dragged into the next - that would be it.

They've had their ups and downs, inevitably so, but nothing like the year before Jemma being taken away by the monolith. That long and ongoing interruption is a well-known state whose edge they're walking on, even if there is none of the malice and the hurt from before. Dinner, so long wanted and anticipated, didn't fix everything or perhaps it did, only for them to go back to square one afterwards. And yet their friendship, as it once was, is there at hands reach only for them to take; so why are they sitting there, unable to speak the truth and look each other in the eyes, and what stands in the way? Fear, history and memories staring at them accusingly. It's all too important to risk ruining it and silence seems like the best and most suitable option.

"It's beautiful here," says Jemma, biting her tongue so as not to add _and we're still unhappy_ right after. She's resolute not to ruin the moment, not when everything already appears fragile and ready to fall down. The facade they've so carefully built has to stay intact and whole for however long it takes for her to settle her heart on the idea of things between them changing, irreversibly so, and it's only half a lie - irrelevant, perhaps - for the spot is indeed breathtaking.

There's trees, whose leaves are just starting to sprout, that tower themselves against the sky - irregular and ramified lines. The light from the lampposts looks dimmer now that dawn is starting to break and darkness is slowly being replaced by light - pinks and yellows replacing the shades of grey, and the moon still there - and the expanse of green grass, partly covered in frost, white and translucent, glistens in the first morning light. It's early spring and they're still unhappy, with themselves and with the other, but the air smells like petricor and grass. It's a sharp smell, a brisk smell, a poignant one that fills their nostrils at every breath that reminds them of home and helps them to feel even more distant from the city below them. They're the only ones awake, on top of the world, isolated, with the chirpering of birds filling the silence.

"Pretty good spot for a sunrise."

"It is." Jemma pauses. "Though let's face it, everything's an improvement from the base's window."

Fitz wants to joke that sleeping in one of the few rooms of the playground that actually has a window can't be that bad, surely. He and Daisy were the ones to make sure that it was all ship-shape in Bristol fashion - the desk under the window and the bed opposite to that, golden patterns on the white linen in the early hours of the morning; quite something to wake up to. It was meant for her to take, he wants to tell her, where it not for the unexpected twist of events, but she sleeps in it anyway so what's the point of delving on details? "Yeah," he finally settles for.

"But thank you, for taking me here. It means a lot and I know you quite well, getting up early isn't really part of your daily routine."

"Oh come on, that's- that's just unfair," he protests, jokingly. "I don't get up _that_ late."

"I know, that's why I added _this_." She laughs. It bubbles up at the back of her throat and comes out, genuine and carefree, lifting itself into the morning air. It's a carefree sound, free of any of the nervousness that in the past months has painted their interactions, it's going back to something distant in time that at the same time relies on a welcomed sense familiarity, it's happy and contagious and Fitz joins in almost immediately - trembling lips that part and reveal his teeth as he bursts out laughing with her, his shoulders raising just slightly. There's nothing inherently hilarious about, they are both aware of it, and it's just laughing for the mere sake of it and falling back on a well-known banter that reveals itself as still there. "But I appreciate it a lot that we- that we drove out here instead of just meeting in the corridor and watch it from there. We could have just as easily stayed at the base."

"You seem eager to leave nowadays," he replies, carefully. It's not the point, or perhaps it's the beginning, but if they can speak in honesty about this, they can also step over the inanities and grasp for the larger thought. He knows and has known her for a very long time, her attempts of masking her distress only make it appear clearer. The more something is off, the more she appears cheerful - forced actions, words and sentences too well put together for having been pronounced on the spur of the moment.

"Do I?" Jemma takes a deep breath, the exigent air flow, sharp and irregular, cuts through the air and creates small clouds of condensation in front of her face. "I was playing with the idea of going back home for a while. A week. Two. A month. I uhm, I don't know. I know things are relatively quiet at the moment, It or Hive or whatever we want to call it not having managed to come through the portal, but I haven't been home in such a long time and sometimes- sometimes being at S.H.I.E.L.D. is too much, a long road ahead."

The sentence is ended abruptly. The dental plosive comes out in a pop and marks the end of the conversation, leaving no space for further enquiries. It ends there, as quickly as it started, and they are left to marvel and reflect about it all - the normal life so much wished for that lacks contentment and appears incomplete.

Fitz shifts his position, his elbow accidentally pressing into her ribs is followed by a string of whispered apologies that come out in one torrential and impetuous flow. His hand, stuffed into the right pocket, makes contact with the warm fabric of the inside of his jacket; there's used paper tissues that he has forgotten to throw away and have been hidden there for longer than he likes to admit, his car keys, the metal rough and cold under his touch, and his phone. It's deftly pulled out, held tight in the palm of Fitz's hand, as his arm raises higher and higher so as to get the ear buds out too - a white string from his phone to his pocket, that swings back and forth before being pulled out and placed down.

"What are you doing?" Jemma asks bewildered as he hands her one of the ear buds.

"Just take it and put it on, will you, Simmons?"

Their fingertips brush against each other and they smile, before shifting position again and looking in front of them instead of at each other - the white string of the ear buds, the only thing that connects them, hangs in the space between them, a thin and small v between them. Music plays softly, both voices and tune nothing but a whisper; it's an ensemble of familiar voices that bring back years of memories. The cheerfulness and comfort, much to their surprise, is still the same as always and a smiles creeps up their faces, growing larger and larger until they are sitting there, grinning, tapping their fingertips on their knees with the same speed as the drums and tilting their heads just slightly.

"You remembered," Jemma says as she turns up the volume. She could blast the music through the speakers given how much she's missed and anticipated the moment, but studies Fitz's face with complete and utter attention to see when the music gets too loud for him.

"Hard not to. It's been sitting in my music library for - a very long time. I almost forgot about it, then in your videos..."

"Those." Her voice drops, almost in fear, and Fitz can see her closing into herself, shutting him out - in defence, perhaps; getting smaller and smaller, reserved. She looks away and he lacks the will to look away and go on pretending that they do not have a problem. This is it, he's sure, and it doesn't matter if it's the core or just the tip of the ice berg or something that might finally lead them to admit that there is something wrong between them. This isn't like the tiptoeing and the carefulness, this hurt in her eyes and her desperate attempt to look elusive, as if not there, is a step further and he cannot or will not let it go.

She swallows but her throat is dry. The problem, Jemma knows and should probably tell him, isn't much the content of the videos - there are some she's glad he's seen - but the recordings and any possible reaction to them. Fear paralyzes her and she's horrified in front of the truth and the possibility of what's to come. The content of her phone, kept like a diary, that for so long had been her way on the planet to reorder her thoughts and stay sane, clinging on the idea of having spoken some things out loud even if not to him, do no longer exist out of time and space, but add up to everything that has happened since. What did he think and what is he thinking now? There's a chasm between then and now, and no need for apologies - lovers don't feel the same way in December as they did in May, and there was hardly anything between them but a maybe and the desire to explore a possibility that has never reached its fulfilment; he too must be aware of it. The knot in her stomach gets tighter and all that plays in her head, all that she can think of, is Fitz leaving and the fact that any minute now he's going to tell her, of this she's sure, that he's heard what she said to him or about him or whatever and heartbreak will reveal itself, taking up all the place previously occupied by embarrassment.

"I didn't- I didn't listen to them, Jemma." He shakes his head.

It's all subsequent, it becomes clear now as the pieces of the puzzle are finally starting to fall into their right place - revealing the bigger picture - and it lineally plays in his head in all its details. Months earlier, Jemma walking into the lab as he was working on something with Hunter - details for a mission, probably, an argument about how to spell a name and Hunter being his usual self - her hands holding her smashed phone tightly. Eyes opening and closing once, twice, three times in a row as if to adjust to the light and her hands partially covered by the sleeves of her sweater, he had been happy to see her again and was looking forward for the upcoming schedule changes for it meant they were back working together, side by side, as they were used to. Her giving him the phone and asking if he could find away to recover some of the collected data. It had taken weeks.

"You didn't?"

"No, well, just that one. Part of it."

The info, the pictures of the landscape, an old video made for her birthday. A picture of Jemma and Will, innocent but adding up to everything that happened after Jemma's return, and making things clear. Jealousy mixing with unsettlement and the feeling of having invaded Jemma's privacy, of having seen something that he was not meant to see and at the same time something that was quite obvious anyway. In the rush to leave the room, he had knocked a plastic briefcase over - paper and pens scattering on the floor - but cared little about it, the air inside the lab oppressing. And then Jemma's voice, exhausted and hoarse, and him running back from the door and clicking furiously on the top right corner of computer's window, desperate to shut it off; her sentence midway interrupted.

"But I've seen the picture of you and Will," he adds without malice.

It comes out sounding as _I know about you and Will_ and they both know it. It seems big, but it's not and part of them, if only a small one, is aware that they are making too much out of it. And yet this conversation, this crumbling of a pretence, has been long time coming. Feelings have to be addressed, one way or the other - not everyone else's and without taking into consideration any of the comments made behind people's backs, just theirs so as to clear up the path to honesty.

Fitz takes a deep breath. "Everyone always thought we'd be together. The two of us, that's what everyone thought. That one day we'd come to our senses."

"Is that what you thought?"

"I thought there'd be time. To know," he says with honesty as he rubs his hands over his eyes.

She looks at him, carefully studying his expression. Perhaps it's the acceptance or the time that has passed since the two of them had stood, happy and hopeful, in front of the glass case of the Monolith, either way his expression is neutral, calm, at peace. It makes her confident and bolder, the fear of judgement slowly wearing off. "What you said to me at the bottom of the ocean-"

"Jemma, don't."

"No, we're here now so we might as well discuss this. What you said to me at the bottom of the ocean, the timing was wrong. Then again, I do get the urgency, the need to speak out loud. I do get it now." She pauses. "That night, when you invited me to dinner- Scratch that. That day, when I came to talk to you before you left with Coulson - I know we set fixing our friendship as the ultimate priority, but there was something. I'm not making things worse, am I?"

Fitz shakes his head.

"I'd have liked to explore all the maybe-s and the possibilities. For a long time I thought the same thing while on Maveth, that's why... that's why I was afraid you'd heard the recordings, well, some of them at least. I'd have told you, but I was so sure and terrified that you'd think less of me because of it, because of Will and all of that."

"No, never."

"We just ehm, we just sort of missed each other, didn't we? It was my fault, really, I didn't... I didn't notice until it was too late and then things changed completely. I'm sorry, for all of it. For breaking your heart."

"It's always later than we think, I suppose," he replies, his voice breaking and the sentence coming out in bits and pieces, the syllables unbound.

In the end what was the likelihood of everything? Of him falling for Jemma, of Jemma reciprocating his feelings, of her not being alone and later falling in love with someone else? It's all a string of conditionals and possibilities, of phantom versions of themselves moved by every step not made and every word left unspoken. They vanish in their unrealness and lack of fulfilment, cease to exist and become irrelevant.

"Fitz, can I ask you something?"

"Go on then."

"We're still friends, aren't we? Contra mundum and all of that, everything that has happened before and especially since hasn't changed that, has it?" she asks.

Fitz looks at her in bewilderment. He's never really thought about how his actions could be understood and misunderstood which, in hindsight, he could consider hilarious. But with Jemma sitting there, mouth half opened, what he assume is sheer terror in her eyes, eager for an answer, all the ludicrousness disappears and he cannot help but think about how long that question has been buzzing inside her head. The core of the problem, of this is sure, but have they really been doing so badly so as to doubt their friendship? They've been playing the same game of pretending, but apart from that he'd have assumed that they were holding on as always. He thinks about her return: one person taken away, two people spat out - dehydrated, emaciated, exhausted. The sound of bones braking and Jemma hitting her face on the floor, blood starting to run down her nose; he remembers screaming on the top of his lungs for help, closing the glass door of the monolith's case, back leaning against it, unable to move. Jemma whispering his name, trembling fingers stretched out on the cold cement floor towards Will, and him still not moving - he couldn't let the glass door open again, wouldn't allow it, not now that she was there again. And that nauseating stench filling the room, it would linger in there for weeks after. But that can't be it, because afterwards he's been with Jemma throughout her recovery - he kept her company in medical, he slept beside her, Jemma's head resting on his legs, him reading for her.

Speak, Jemma wants to scream, just say something. Anything but staying silent and making things worse, because all she can think about is her sitting on the armchair and Fitz sitting on the sofa, getting up and leaving. It replays in her head over and over, how she should have probably run after him, down the corridor and then outside, to ask for an explanation or even just understand instead of letting it go and keeping it to herself for months. Even now she blames it on many a thousand things - too many mentions of Will perhaps, at the time the whole situation had already started to appear a tricky business - but what she didn't and doesn't know is that he had never cared about her more than in that moment and that walking away wasn't because of misplaced feelings of jealousy, but a desperate need to take a breath, the pain and loneliness she must have felt - unimaginable.

"We're good, aren't we? We still got each other, you and me, a good team. Just like the old days." Her voice is now oozing with desperation and there's tears prickling in her eyes, hands fidgeting in nervousness and restlessness. "I've missed you."

"Of course," he tells her.  His voice breaks and all the phonemes are distanced with a break, his breath sharp as it leaves his mouth, as he shifts closer to her, putting an arm around her shoulders - holding her close.

They sit there, music in their ears, the volume turned up again, as the sky starts to get clearer and lighter. Colours break out in all their intensity and the first rays of sunshine shine through the branches of the trees and are reflected by the translucent frost layer on the ground, making the park appear golden.

"The sun's coming up," she whispers, stating the obvious. A smile is on her face and she looks mesmerized and in awe at the scene in front of her.

"Yeah, it does that. Every day."

Jemma lets out a laugh. "It's a far better view than the one from any window back at the base, I'll give you that; less - grey. And I was thinking that afterwards, if it's not too late, and you want to, we could stop somewhere for breakfast. I wasn't here for your birthday, I'll buy you a piece of cake."

"I'd like that."

"And we can finish our conversation, but for now, let's just watch the sunrise."


End file.
